


third time’s the charm

by ruiconteur



Category: 19th century ce, Classical Music RPF
Genre: (it was a commission), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don’t copy to another site, Fluff and Crack, For a Friend, M/M, Pre-Slash, Swearing, The Author Regrets Everything, don - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 20:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19092526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruiconteur/pseuds/ruiconteur
Summary: The third time it happens, Frédéric is ready to slam his fist through something.





	third time’s the charm

**Author's Note:**

> listen,,,, when my senior said she was going to commission me for a fanfic, this was absolutely nothing like what i’d expected.
> 
> honestly i probably should have expected this though.
> 
> so here you go, 1k+ of pure crack and a lot of weird banter idk

The third time it happens, Frédéric is ready to slam his fist through something. Preferably the face of whoever’s interrupting his fucking playing, but he’ll settle for anything at this rate.

He doesn't bother grabbing a coat when he goes out; his anger will keep him warm enough for the middle of winter. The lilting notes grow louder, almost taking on a life of their own, as he shoves his feet in some shoes and makes his way to the door across from his. They seem to dance across the top of the snowflakes spiralling down towards the black tarmacadam street.

Not that he cares about that, but the audacity of whoever this is is _stunning_. It’s enough to make him take notice of the music being played.

Because he doesn’t actually want to antagonise his other neighbours, he decides to ring the doorbell first. But then he rings it again not a second later in a fit of petty rage because why the fuck not.

The music cuts off. Heavy footsteps make their way to the front of the house and the asshole rips open the door, snarling a harsh “What,” through gritted teeth.

What the fuck.

Frédéric swears he feels something crack as he cranes his neck up, up, _up_. “What the hell are you, some kind of goddamn giant?” There is no such thing as a god, not if some asshole can be taller than him. Seriously, who thought this was a good idea, he’d very much like to slap some sense into them.

The asshole blinks at him. “Sorry?” Then he shuts his mouth and glares again. “Look, just say whatever you came to say and leave, I haven’t got time for this nonsense.” He’s already half turning away as he speaks, eyes sliding off of Frédéric and looking somewhere behind him.

Probably his piano, the jerk.

Frédéric sticks his foot in the door and demands, “Can you not play at the same time as me? How am I supposed to know whether this rhythm works if some random guy decides that he’s going to play something similar at the exact _same fucking time?_ ”

The asshole splutters, wide-eyed and gaping. “Excuse m—”

“You’re excused,” Frédéric says, waving a dismissive hand. “Now stop, it’s distracting and I don’t like it.”

“Oh, you don’t like it, do you,” the asshole says, crossing his arms. “Is that why the whole world needs to bow to your every whim now, _húgyagyú?_ Believe it or not, I’m not playing just to annoy you.”

Then he slams the door in Frédéric’s face. Because he’s an asshole.

* * *

They see each other again the very next week.

“Not you again,” the asshole groans. He looks behind him, then drags Frédéric to a corner and hisses, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Me?” Frédéric can feel a headache coming on already. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t snap at the asshole. Their faces are far too close.

“Do you see anyone else here?” the asshole says dryly, rolling his eyes. “Dear god, you really are a _húgyagyú_ , aren’t you?”

Frédéric really wants to punch him. But he also doesn’t want to get kicked out of the concert hall, not after all the work he’s put into getting here, so he clenches his fists and doesn’t move. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Oh, for the love of—It means you’ve got piss for brains, now tell me what you’re doing here.” The asshole follows Frédéric’s gaze to the entry pass clutched in his hand. “Fuck no.”

Frédéric pushes him off and straightens up, tugging at his jacket. “What do you mean, fuck no? I worked my ass off to get a spot in this concert, I’ll be damned if I let some upst—”

The asshole holds up his own entry pass.

“Oh, fucking hell.”

* * *

Their third meeting goes something like this.

It’s a bright and sunny day when Frédéric sees the asshole at the park near their apartment block. He tries to turn away, pretend he doesn’t see the guy he’s actually coming to tolerate.

But then the asshole yells, “Hey, _húgyagyú_ , pulled that stick out of your arse yet,” at his back, and really, Frédéric can’t be blamed for the argument they get into.

Okay, maybe he could, but he maintains that the evidence is flimsy and completely exaggerated and shut up, Liszt, you don’t get to talk.

In the end, there are a lot of petty insults thrown back and forth before it’s decided that they really should make an effort to be on good terms. It’s not like they’re being particularly soft, and they’re starting to get weird looks from everyone else.

Also, the concert director had nearly thrown a chair at them when they started arguing in the middle of the rehearsal. Maybe they shouldn’t have started debating about phrygian tonalities just then.

It takes them a whole minute—during which they conduct an entire conversation through twitching lips and quirked eyebrows—before they burst into disbelieving laughter.

“Your face, oh my god,” the asshole gasps out. He’s clutching his stomach, half leaning against the wall as he struggles to catch his breath. “It makes me want to choke.”

Frédéric can’t help the amused grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t look like you need any help with that, _gówienko_.”

The asshole rolls his eyes at him and offers a hand. “Franz Liszt. Who are you again?”

“Frédéric Chopin.” He pauses, then adds, “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but that would be a lie.”

“So is saying that your playing is any good,” Liszt shoots back with no heat.

Frédéric peers at him in mock concern, trying to keep his lips from curling into a smile. “Are you absolutely sure you weren’t listening to a recording of yourself?”

Instead of answering, Liszt rolls his eyes and punches him in the shoulder. His face is contorted in an odd grimace, and it takes Frédéric a while to realise that it’s actually a smile.

“Shut up,” comes the eloquent reply.

Frédéric laughs.

This might not be so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i actually have no idea what phrygian tonalities are, i just asked my musically-inclined friends to give me the fanciest music thing they could think of and this was the result
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://socionatural.tumblr.com)!


End file.
